Reading Time: 3 minutes

Silent Bob came back from the back field.

“#12 is acting funny. She’s in the middle field lying down. The other cows are back there but they aren’t getting close to her.”

I didn’t pay much attention.

The 285 days from which #12 was bred and set to deliver her sweet black Angus baby had come and passed. We could only assume that she had miscarried or the bull never did what he should have.

(For some reason, I incorrectly assumed that several attempts to produce offspring in the less-than-humanoid fraction of mating entities were unnecessary. Not sure why I held this notion. I placed the responsibility squarely within the male pervue to assure this and …the failure to do so in the same arena. I now know why it’s not true. I have witnessed a broad range of animal males making the attempt, and well, quite frankly, they don’t seem to be as natural at the activity as I assumed they would be. I’ll not say any more than that.)

It wasn’t until a few hours later that I began to consider that #12 as well as the other girls had had a visitor some months back. Thinking that she was pregnant by a suitor we had chosen for her back then, I didn’t anticipate she might have gone out on a one night stand with the obviously very experienced old, huge Charolais bull from the south end neighbor’s pasture.

Apparently, her swaying udders and